Of Frost & Cinder (Old Version)

The Fox Glove

Chapter Seven

"So, werewolves, do you know anything about them?" I repeat the question to Pete, who's face is slathered in skepticism.

"Pete?" I say, trying to pry any other emotion from him. He thinks I'm being senseless, irrational, and I'm slowly dying as I wait for his response.

Pete blinks twice before throwing his head back, hands clutching his stomach as hysterical laughter slices through the tense silence.

This only irritates me.

"Pete!"

He wipes a fresh tear from the corner of his eye, "Werewolves? You can't be serious!"

"I'm dead serious." I set the laptop on the desk before him, double tapping to open the browser. "You did a report on them, didn't you? I think it was freshman year when we were reading The Mark of The Beast."

Pete frowns. "Yeah, but I bluffed through half that essay. I didn't even finish the book."

I groan and resolve to typing random searches.

"Come on, Shell, you can tell me," he says. "Did you get into your mom's herb stash again?"

I punch him right in the thigh. "Shut it, Pete. I need your help! I tried earlier, but I don't think I was searching the right stuff. It kept coming up with television shows."

Pete takes a deep breath, and then scoots the chair up to the desk. "Fine. I'll humor you."

"Thank you!" I say, and clear the web browser, "and hey, my mom does not smoke pot. That was a bag of oregano."

Pete snorts. "Yeah, oregano laced with skunk spray."

He places his finger on the track pad and clicks into the search box. "Alright, werewolves...I'm sure there's a ton of legends and stuff. Do you want local stories, international, what?"

Pete's waiting for an answer, and I realize I have no idea where to start.

"Okay..." he says, "let's narrow it down. What is it that you want to know?"

If I'm going bonkers, I silently retort. Out of everything I want to know, it's if that guy was telling the truth—if he's actually what he says he is. If it is, if he isn't some psychopath, does that mean that everything else is true?

I shudder at the thought. That would mean the bit about the Ironide isn't a lie. Someone is poisoning me, but what are they so bent on making me forget?

The guy said that Ironide is a mixture of iron and some sort of petal.

"You know what, scratch that," I blur, "let's look up plants."

"From werewolves to botany," Pete shakes his head. It's obvious how senseless he thinks I'm being, how crazy. I can't say that I blame him for the hesitancy. First this morning, I express my repetitious dreams about wolves at the cafe, and now we're researching folklore and hooky herbs.

"So, basically, I want to know if there's a plant or chemical that can be used as a suppressant."

"What kind of suppressant?"

I bite my lip. "It could be anything, but memories, mostly."

Pete frowns, "I can try, but I've never heard of a plant that could do that."

I groan and push off the bed. I have to move to think. While Pete keeps typing, I take a moment to clean up the pile of clothes I flung around earlier.

I sigh, stuffing my now-ruined formal dress into the black bag it came in. I doubt a dry cleaner can fix this bloody mess. I can't really explain to the dry cleaner that I don't remember how I got a massive gash in my back. He'd have a field day with the rumors he could concoct from it.